Archive for the ‘Not so true’ Category


Aliens at the end of her arms

April 6, 2014

She spent a long time examining the backs of her hands, pushing the thin skin into ripples with her fingers. She pondered the dry patch near her left pinky, the one bulging vein near her right middle knuckle. Her cuticles needed to be pushed back, and her fingernails were growing unevenly.

They were like old friends, these hands, and they had done so much to help her along the way. But today they seemed like unfamiliar beings, aliens at the ends of her arms. They spoke of who she had become, a person she sometimes didn’t even recognize.


Rhythm and rain

April 4, 2014

They woke to the sound of falling rain, and it made their warm bed’s gravitational pull even stronger than usual.

I’m not ready yet, he said, and he reset his alarm clock, changing the day’s whole rhythm. The minutes slid by like drops down the windowpanes, and they slept again, the blankets muffling all the worries about what would come later. The light seeped into the room, revealing all the cracks between the two of them and the world outside.


Every winter

February 12, 2014

It’s not as if she didn’t expect the heavy limbs, the deadening of her body. These things happened every winter, as soon as the sun disappeared and the ice took hold. She kept a countdown of the days, checking them off one by one until they started getting long enough to get her home before dark. She slept with the lights on if necessary, determined to use any method she could to beat back the oppression of early night. Every day she survived took her one day closer to when spring would finally return.


The perfect light

December 18, 2013

She did not ask for the perfect light. It just settled there, at the edge of the horizon, changing slightly minute by minute. She soaked it in that entire hour, letting it fill her with its pink and orange radiance.

Sometime, she thought, she would be in total darkness, and this reservoir would sustain her. Sometime, she thought, she would need to drink from it until morning.


Not the future we expected

December 16, 2013

Night falls on this fallow land, and we make minor-keyed music on instruments built from recycled parts. Outside, a dog barks, inconsolable in the cold and dark. He settles down only after a passerby lobs a rock into his yard. It lands with a thud near his head. He knows better than to say more, then.

This was not the future we expected. We light wood with scavenged matches. We huddle in the flickering firelight, telling stories of the world we once knew. We each have lost someone who could not put shoulder to this dark wheel.


Ripping away

December 14, 2013

I asked you to be honest with me, he said. I asked you to be true.

I was true, she said, but she understood why he thought she wasn’t. She talked in her sleep of things that had not happened but sounded so very, very real.

I love you, he said. I don’t know why you can’t adhere.

She wanted to stick to him, wanted so badly to do so. But she felt herself ripping away, one hand lifted, the other barely hanging on. Her dreams, they were so much more real than he was.



December 12, 2013

He made her a playlist for her journey. This should keep your ears happy, he said.

He thought it better to tell her that than what he really wanted to tell her, which was that he was going to miss both her earlobes, and the way the skin right there was so soft, and that he was going to miss saying things only she could hear.

He imagined her in her window seat, her earbuds tucked into place. He imagined her hearing the music in place of his voice.


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